"On my way here, I saw sisters of different Ajahs glaring at one another. Glaring. What has happened in the Tower, Mother?"
"Your oath, Beonin."
The woman stood peering into her teacup long enough that Elaida was beginning to think she would refuse. But ambition won out. She had tied herself to Elaida's skirts in the hope of preferment, and she would not abandon that now. "Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I swear that I will teach the weaves I learned among the rebels to no one without the permission of the Amyrlin Seat." She paused, taking a sip from the cup. "Some sisters in the Tower, they are perhaps less reliable than you think. I tried to stop it, but that 'ruling council' sent ten sisters to return to the Tower and spread the tale of the Red Ajah and Logain." Elaida recognized few of the names she reeled off, until the last. That one made her sit bolt upright.
"Shall I have them arrested, Mother?" Tarna asked, still as chill as ice.
"No. Have them watched. Watch whoever they associate with." So there was a conduit between the Ajahs inside the Tower and the rebels. How deeply had the rot spread? However deep, she would clean it out!
"That may be difficult as matters stand, Mother."
Elaida slapped the table with her free hand, a sharp crack. "I didn't ask whether it would be difficult. I said do it! And inform Meidani that I invite her to dinner this evening." The woman had been persistent in trying to resume a friendship that had ended many years before. Now she knew why. "Go and do that now." A shadow crossed Tarna's face as she curtsied. "Don't worry," Elaida said. "Beonin can feel free to teach you every weave she knows." She did trust Tarna, after all, and it certainly made her expression brighter, if not warmer.
As the door closed behind her Keeper, Elaida pushed the leather folder to one side and leaned her elbows on the table, focusing on Beonin. "Now. Show me everything."
CHAPTER 3 At the Gardens
Aran'gar arrived in answer to Moridin's summons, spoken into her furious dreams, to find him not yet there. That was hardly surprising; he liked to make an entrance.
Eleven tall armchairs, carved and gilded, sat in a circle in the middle of the striped wooden floor, but they were empty. Semirhage, all in black as usual, looked around to see who had entered, then returned to her huddled conversation with Demandred and Mesaana in one corner of the room. Demandred's hook-nosed face carried an expression of anger that only made him more striking. Not enough to attract her, of course. He was far too dangerous for that. That well-fitted coat of bronze silk, with falls of snowy lace at neck and wrists, suited him, however. Mesaana also wore the style of this Age, a darker, pattern-embroidered bronze. She appeared wan and subdued, for some reason, almost as if she had taken ill. Well, that was possible. This Age had a number of nasty diseases, and it seemed unlikely even she would trust Semirhage for Healing. Graendal, the only other human present, stood in the corner opposite cradling a delicate crystal goblet filled with dark wine, but watching the trio rather than drinking. Only idiots ignored being studied by Graendal, yet the three went on with their fierce murmurs.
The chairs jarred with the rest of their surroundings. The room appeared to have view-walls, though the stone arch of a doorway destroyed the illusion. The chairs could have been anything, here in Tel'aran'rhiod, so why not something to suit the room, and why eleven when that was surely two more than needed? Asmodean and Sammael must be as dead as Be'lal and Rahvin. Why not the usual dilating door of a view-room? The display made the floor seem to be surrounded by the Ansaline Gardens, with Cormalinde Masoon's immense sculptures of stylized humans and animals towering over low buildings themselves like delicate sculptures in spinglass. At the Gardens only the finest wines had been served, the finest dishes, and it almost always had been possible to impress a beautiful woman with large winnings at the chinje wheels, though cheating enough to win consistently had been difficult. Difficult, but necessary for a scholar who lacked wealth. All gone, in ruins by the third year of the war.
A golden-haired, ever-smiling zomara in a flowing white blouse and tight breeches bowed fluidly and offered Aran'gar a crystal goblet of wine on a silver tray. Graceful and beautifully androgynous, apparently human despite those dead black eyes, the creatures had been one of Aginor's less inspired creations. Still, even in their own Age, when Moridin had been called Ishamael—there was no longer any doubt in her mind of who he was—he had trusted the creatures above any human servant, despite their uselessness for every other task. Somewhere he must have found a stasis box stuffed with the tilings. He had dozens, although he seldom brought them out. Yet ten more stood waiting, graceful while standing still. He must consider this meeting more important than most.
Taking the goblet, she waved the zomara away, though it was already turning before she gestured. She hated the creatures' ability to know what was in her head. At least it could not communicate what it learned to anyone. Memories of anything but commands faded in minutes. Even Aginor possessed sense enough to see the need for that. Would he appear today? Osan'gar had missed every meeting since the failure at Shadar Logoth. The true question was, was he among the dead or was he moving in secret, perhaps at the Great Lord's direction? Either way, his absences presented delicious opportunities, but the latter presented as many dan
gers. Dangers had been much on her mind lately.
Casually, she strolled over to Graendal. "Who do you think arrived first, Graendal? The Shadow take me, whoever it was chose a depressing setting." Lanfear had preferred meetings that floated in endless night, yet this was worse in its own way, like meeting in a cemetery.
Graendal smiled thinly. At least, she attempted a thin smile, but no amount of effort would make those lips thin. Lush was the word for all of Graendal, lush and ripe and beautiful, and barely concealed by the gray mist of her streith gown. Though perhaps she should not have worn quite so many rings, all but one adorned with gems. The coronet encrusted with rubies clashed with her sun-gold hair, too. The emerald necklace Delana had provided went much better with her own green satin silks. Of course, while the emeralds were real, her silks were a product of the World of Dreams. She would have attracted too much notice in the waking world with a dress cut so low, if it would even stay up, there. And there was the slit that bared her left leg to the hip. Her legs were better than Graendal's. She had considered two slits. Her abilities here were not as large as some—she could not find Egwene's dreams without the girl right beside her—but she could manage the clothes she wanted. She enjoyed having her body admired, and the more she flaunted it, the more the others took her for inconsequential.
"I arrived first," Graendal said, frowning slightly into her wine. "I have fond memories of the Gardens."
Aran'gar managed a laugh. "So do I, so do I." The woman was a fool like the rest, living in the past among the tatters of what was lost. "We'll never see the Gardens again, but we'll see their like." She herself was the only one of them suited to rule in this Age. She was the only one who understood primitive cultures. They had been her specialty before the war. Still, Graendal had useful skills, and a wider range of contacts among the Friends of the Dark than she herself had, though the other woman would certainly disapprove of how Aran'gar meant to use them should she learn. "Has it occurred to you that all of the others have alliances, while you and I stand alone?" And Osan'gar, if he was alive, but there was no need to bring him into this.
Graendal's gown turned a darker gray, regrettably obscuring the view. It was real streith. Aran'gar had found a pair of stasis-boxes herself, but filled with the most appalling rubbish for the most part. "Has it occurred to you that this room must have ears? The zomaran were here when I arrived."
"Graendal." She purred the name. "If Moridin is listening, he'll assume I'm trying to get into your bed. He knows I never made alliances with anyone." In truth, she had made several, but her allies always seemed to suffer fatal misfortunes once their usefulness ended, and they took all knowledge of the affiliations to their graves. Those who found graves.
The streith went black as midnight in Larcheen, and spots of color appeared on Graendal's creamy cheeks. Her eyes became blue ice. But her words were at odds with her face, and her gown faded to near transparency as she spoke, slowly, sounding thoughtful. "An intriguing notion. One I've never before considered. I might do so now. Perhaps. You will have to . . . convince me, though." Good. The other woman was as quick-witted as ever. It was a reminder that she must be careful. She meant to use Graendal and dispose of her, not be caught in one of her traps.
"I am very good at convincing beautiful women." She stretched out a hand to caress Graendal's cheek. Now was not too soon to begin convincing the others. Besides, something more than an alliance might come of it. She had always fancied Graendal. She no longer really remembered having been a man. In her memories, she wore the body she did now, which did make for a few oddities, yet that body's influence had not changed everything. Her appetites had not altered, only broadened. She would like very much to have that streith gown. And anything else useful that Graendal might possess, of course, but she dreamed of wearing that dress sometimes. The only reason she was not wearing one now was that she would not have the other woman thinking she had imitated her.
The streith remained barely opaque, but Graendal stepped away from the caress looking past Aran'gar, who turned to find Mesaana approaching, flanked by Demandred and Semirhage. He still appeared angry, and Semirhage coolly amused. Mesaana was still pale, but no longer subdued. No, not subdued at all. She was a hissing coreer, spitting venom.
"Why did you let her go, Aran'gar? You were supposed to be controlling her! Were you so busy playing your little dream-games with her that you forgot to learn what she was thinking? The rebellion will fall apart without her for a figurehead. All my careful planning ruined because you couldn't keep a grasp on one ignorant girl!"
Aran'gar held on to her temper firmly. She could hold it, when she was willing to make the effort. Instead of snarling, she smiled. Could Mesaana actually have based herself inside the White Tower? How wonderful it would be if she could find a way to split that threesome apart. "I listened in on a sitting of the rebels' Hall last night. In the World of Dreams, so they could meet inside the White Tower, with Egwene leading it. She's not the figurehead you believe. I've tried telling you before, but you never listened." That came out too hard. With an effort, and it required effort, she moderated her tone. "Egwene told them all about the situation inside the Tower, the Ajahs at one another's throats. She convinced them it's the Tower that is about to fall apart, and that she might be able to help it along from where she is. Were I you, I'd worry whether the Tower can hold together long enough to keep this conflict going."
"They're determined to hold on?" Mesaana murmured, half under her breath. She nodded. "Good. Good. Then everything is proceeding according to plan. I had been thinking I would need to stage some sort of 'rescue,' but perhaps I can wait until Elaida has broken her. Her return should create even more confusion, then. You need to sow more dissension, Aran'gar. Before I'm done, I want these so-called Aes Sedai hating each other in their blood."
A zomara appeared, bowing gracefully as it offered a tray with three goblets. Mesaana and her companions took the wine without a glance at the creature, and it bowed again before flowing away.
"Dissension was always something she was good at," Semirhage said. Demandred laughed.
Aran'gar forced her anger down. Sipping her own wine—it was quite good, with a heady aroma, if nowhere near the vintages served at the Gardens—she laid her free hand on Graendal's shoulder and toyed with one of those sun-colored curls. The other woman never flinched, and the streith remained a bare mist. Either she was enjoying this, or she had better control of herself than seemed possible. Semirhage's smile grew more amused. She, too, took her pleasures where she found them, though Semirhage's pleasures had never attracted Aran'gar.